Maillot was a fool; one of the Emperor’s loyal mastiffs; a man for errands; a man without imagination. “Bordeaux is not a safe place,” Ducos said softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself, “the mayor has sent a message to the English, asking them to come here. He thinks I don’t know of the message, but I have a copy on this table.”
“Then arrest him,” Maillot said casually.
“With what? Half the town guard wears the white cockade now, and so would the other half if they had the guts.” Ducos stood and crossed to a window from which he stared at the rain which swept in great swathes across the Place St Julien. “The wagon will be safe here tonight,” he said, “and your men can take some of the empty billets.” Ducos turned, suddenly smiling. “But you, Colonel, will do me the honour of taking supper at my lodgings?”
All Maillot wished to do was sleep, but he knew in what favour the Emperor held this small bespectacled man and so, out of courtesy and because Ducos pressed the invitation so warmly, the Colonel reluctantly accepted.
Yet, to Maillot’s surprise, Ducos proved a surprisingly entertaining host, and Maillot, who had snatched two hours’ exhausted sleep in the afternoon, found himself warming to the small man who talked so frankly of his services to the Emperor. “I was never a natural soldier like yourself, Colonel,” Ducos said modestly. “My talents were used to corrupt, outguess and cheat the enemy.” Ducos did not talk of his past failures that night, but of his successes such as the time when he had lured some Spanish guerrilla leaders to truce talks, and how they had all been slaughtered when they trustingly arrived. Ducos smiled at the memory. “I sometimes miss Spain.”
“I never fought there,” Maillot helped himself to more brandy, “but I was told about the guerilleros. How can you fight men who don’t wear uniforms?”
“By killing as many civilians as you can, of course,” Ducos said, then, wistfully, “I do miss the warm climate.”
Maillot laughed at that. “You were evidently not in Russia.”
“I was not.” Ducos shivered at the very thought, then twisted in his chair to peer into the night. “It’s stopped raining, my dear Maillot. You’ll take a turn in the garden?”
The two men walked the sodden lawn and their cigar smoke drifted up through the branches of the pear- trees. Maillot must still have been remembering the Russian Campaign, for he suddenly uttered a short laugh then commented how very clever the Emperor had been in Moscow.
“Clever?” Ducos sounded surprised. “It didn’t seem very clever to those of us who weren’t there.”
“That’s my point,” Maillot said. “We heard about the unrest at home, so what did the Emperor do? He sent orders that the female dancers of the Paris ballet were to perform without skirts or stockings!” Maillot laughed at the memory, then turned to the garden’s high brick wall and unbuttoned his breeches. He went on talking as he pissed. “We heard later that Paris forgot all about the deaths in Russia, because all they could talk about was Mademoiselle Rossillier’s naked thighs. Were you in Paris at the time?”
“I was in Spain.” Ducos was standing directly behind Maillot. As the older man had talked, Ducos had drawn a small pistol from his tail pocket and silently eased back its oiled cock. Now he aimed the pistol at the base of Maillot’s neck. “I was in Spain,” Ducos said again, and he screwed his eyes tight shut as he pulled the trigger. The ball shattered one of Maillot’s vertebrae, throwing the grey head back in a bloody paroxysm. The Colonel seemed to give a remorseful sigh as he collapsed. His head jerked forward to thump against the brickwork, then the body twitched once and was quite still. The foul-smelling pistol smoke lingered beneath the pear branches.
Ducos retched, gagged, and managed to control himself.
A voice shouted from a neighbouring house, wanting an explanation for the gunshot, but when Ducos made no reply there was no further question.
By dawn the body was hidden under compost.
Ducos had not slept. It was not conscience, nor disgust at Maillot’s death that had kept him awake, but the enormity of what that death represented. Ducos, by pulling the trigger, had abandoned all that had once been most dear to him. He had been raised to believe in the sanctity of the Revolutionary ideals, then had learned that Napoleon’s imperial ambitions were really the same ideals, but transmuted by one man’s genius into a unique and irreplaceable glory. Now, as Napoleon’s glory crumbled, the ideals must live on, only now Ducos recognized that France itself was the embodiment of that greatness.
Ducos had thus persuaded himself in that damp night that the irrelevant trappings of Imperial France could be sacrificed. A new France would rise, and Ducos would serve that new France from a position of powerful responsibility. For the moment, though, a time of waiting and safety was needed. So, in the morning, he summoned the Dragoon Sergeant Challon to the prefecture where he sat the grizzled sergeant down at the green malachite table across which Ducos pushed the one remaining sheet of the Emperor’s dispatch. “Read that, Sergeant.”
Challon confidently picked up the paper, then, realizing that he could not bluff the bespectacled officer, dropped it again. “I don’t read, sir.”
Ducos stared into the bloodshot eyes. “That piece of paper gives you to me, Sergeant. It’s signed by the Emperor himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Challon’s voice was toneless.
“It means you obey me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ducos then took a risk. Spread on the table was a newspaper which he ordered Challon to throw to the floor.
The Sergeant was puzzled at the order, but obeyed. Then he went very still. The newspaper had hidden two white cockades; two big cockades of flamboyant white silk.
Challon stared at the symbols of Napoleon’s enemies, and Ducos watched the pigtailed Sergeant. Challon was not a subtle man, and his leathery scarred face betrayed his thoughts as openly as though he spoke them aloud. The first thing the face betrayed to Ducos was that Sergeant Challon knew what was concealed in the four crates. Ducos would have been astonished if Challon had not known. The second thing that the Sergeant betrayed was that he, just like Ducos, desired those contents.
Challon looked up at the small Major. “Might I ask where Colonel Maillot is, sir?”
“Colonel Maillot contracted a sudden fever which my physician thinks will prove fatal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Challon’s voice was very wooden, “as some of the lads liked the Colonel, sir.” For a second, as he looked into those hard eyes, Ducos thought he had wildly miscalculated. Then Challon glanced at the incriminating cockades. “But some of the lads will learn to live with their grief.”
The relief washed through Ducos, though he was far too clever to reveal either that relief or the fear which had preceded it. Challon, Ducos now knew, was his man. “The fever,” Ducos said mildly, “can be very catching.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.”
“And our responsibility will demand at least six men. Don’t you agree?”
“I think more than that will survive the fever, sir,” Challon said as elliptically as Ducos. They were now confederates in treachery, and neither could state it openly, though each perfectly understood the other.
“Good.” Ducos picked up one of the cockades. Challon hesitated, then picked up the other, and thus their pact was sealed.
Two mornings later there was a sea-fog that rolled from the Garonne estuary to shroud Bordeaux in a white, clinging dampness through which nine horsemen rode eastwards in the dawn. Pierre Ducos led them. He was dressed in civilian clothes with a sword and two pistols at his belt. Sergeant Challon and his men were in the vestiges of their green uniforms, though all the troopers had discarded their heavy metal helmets. Their saddle bags bulged, as did the panniers of the pack horses that three of the troopers led.
To deceive, cheat, disguise, and outwit; those were the skills Ducos had given to his Emperor; which skills must now serve his own ends. The horses clattered through the city’s outer gate, stirred the fog with their passing, and then were gone.
CHAPTER 1
